Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  “Remember? How could I forget? That little book was instrumental in my dismissal.”

  An uncomfortable silence descends. Had Miss Moore not discovered us reading that diary, had she not read aloud to us from its pages, she might never have been dismissed from Spence. But she did, and that sealed her fate with Nightwing.

  “We are so sorry, Miss Moore,” Ann says, staring at the Turkish rug.

  Felicity adds, “It was mostly Pippa’s doing, you know.”

  “Was it?” Miss Moore asks. We sip our tea guiltily. “Careful with blame. It’s a boomerang. Anyway, it’s done now. But this Sarah Rees-Toome—Circe—if she did exist . . .”

  “Oh, she did!” I insist. I know it for a fact.

  “. . . didn’t she die in the fire at Spence?”

  “No,” Felicity adds, wide-eyed. “She only wanted people to think she’d died. She’s still running about.”

  My heart’s hammering away in my chest. "Miss Moore? We were wondering, that is, we rather hoped you might tell us more stories of the Order?”

  Her glare is stony. "We’ve been down that road, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, but it can’t possibly lead to trouble now that you’ve already been let go from Spence,” Felicity says bluntly.

  Miss Moore gives a half laugh. "Miss Worthington, your gall astounds me.”

  “We thought, perhaps, you might know certain things. About the Order. Yourself,” I say haltingly.

  “Myself,” Miss Moore repeats.

  “Yes,” I say, feeling foolish in one hundred different ways, but there is no chance to stop and take it back now, so I might as well continue. “We thought perhaps you . . . had even been counted among their ranks.”

  It’s been said. My teacup shakes in my hand. I wait for Miss Moore to scold us, throw us out, admit she knows all, anything. I am not prepared for her laugh.

  “You thought . . . ? That I . . . ? Oh, great heavens!” She’s laughing so hard, she can’t finish.

  Ann and Felicity begin laughing too, as if they thought it ridiculous from the start. Traitors.

  “Oh, dear me,” Miss Moore says, wiping her eyes. “Yes, it’s true. I am a grand sorceress of the Order. Living here in these three rooms, taking pupils to pay the rent—it’s all an artful ruse designed to keep my true identity hidden.”

  My cheeks go hot. “I am sorry. We,” I say, emphasizing the word, “simply thought that since you know so very much about the Order . . .”

  “Oh, dear. What a disappointment I must be to you all.” She takes a long look around the room, her gaze moving from the drawings of the seaside to those of the caves behind Spence and to the masks on the opposite wall. I fear we’ve really upset her. "Why such interest in the Order?” she says at last.

  “They were women who had power,” Felicity says. “It isn’t like how it is here.”

  “We have a woman on the throne,” Miss Moore offers.

  “By divine right,” Ann mutters.

  Miss Moore smiles bitterly. "Yes. True.”

  “I suppose that’s why the diary intrigued us so,” I say. "Imagine a world—these realms—where women rule, where a girl could have whatever she wished.”

  “That would be a fine place indeed.” Miss Moore takes a sip of her tea. “I confess that the idea of the Order, the stories of them, has been a great fascination to me since girlhood. I suppose that I, too, liked the idea of a magical place when I was a girl of your age.”

  “But . . . but what if the realms really existed?” I ask.

  Miss Moore regards us for a moment. She places her tea on the side table and sits back in her chair, thumbing the pocket watch she keeps pinned at her waist. "Very well, I’ll play. What if the realms really existed? What would they look like?”

  “Beautiful beyond all imagining,” Ann says dreamily.

  Miss Moore points to a sketch she’s done. “Ah. Like Paris, then?”

  “Better!” Ann says.

  “How would you know? You’ve never been to Paris,” Felicity mocks. Ignoring Ann, she continues, “Imagine a world where whatever you wish can come true. Trees rain flowers. And dew becomes butterflies in your hand.”

  “There is a river, and when you look into it, you are beautiful,” Ann says. “So beautiful that no one would ever ignore you again.”

  “Sounds very lovely,” Miss Moore says gently. “And is it all like this? You said realms, plural. What are the other realms like?”

  “We don’t know,” I say.

  “We haven’t been . . . imagined the rest,” Ann says.

  Miss Moore offers the plate of crumpets. “Who lives in these realms?”

  “Spirits and creatures. Some of them aren’t very nice,” Ann says.

  “They want control of the magic,” I explain.

  “Magic?” Miss Moore repeats.

  “Oh, yes. There is magic. Lots of it!” Felicity exclaims. "The creatures would do anything to get it.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes, anything,” Ann says, with a dramatic flair.

  “Can they get to it?” Miss Moore asks.

  “Now they can. The magic used to be protected inside the runes,” Ann continues, between bites. "But the runes are gone and the magic is wild, there for anyone to use as they like.”

  Miss Moore looks as if she wants to ask a question, but Felicity rushes in. "And Pippa’s there, beautiful as ever,” she says.

  “You must miss her terribly,” Miss Moore says. She turns the pocket watch over and over between her fingers. "These stories are a lovely way of remembering her.”

  “Yes,” I say, hoping my guilt does not show.

  “And now that the magic is free, as you say, what is it like? Do you commune with the other members of the Order there and work your hocus-pocus?”

  “No. They’ve all been killed or gone into hiding,” Felicity says. “And it isn’t good at all that the magic has been unleashed.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Some of the spirits can use it for dark purposes. They could use it to break through to this world or to bring Circe in,” Felicity explains. "That is why we must find the Temple.”

  Miss Moore is confused. "I fear I shall have to take notes to keep up. What, pray tell, is the Temple?”

  “That is the secret source of the magic inside the realms,” I say.

  “A secret source?” Miss Moore repeats. “And where is this place, this Temple?”

  “We don’t know. We’ve not discovered it yet,” I say. "But once we do, we can bind the magic again and form a new Order.”

  “Bon courage, then. What a fascinating story,” Miss Moore says. The mantel clock chimes four o’clock. Miss Moore checks the time on her watch against it. "Ah, unfailingly accurate.”

  “Is it four already?” Felicity says, leaping up. “We’re to meet Mother at half past.”

  “What a shame,” Miss Moore says. "You must come back for another visit. As a matter of fact, there is an excellent exhibit at a private gallery in Chelsea on Thursday. Shall we go?”

  “Oh, yes!” we exclaim.

  “Very well,” she says, rising. She helps us into our coats. We don our gloves and secure our hats.

  “So there is nothing further you can tell us about the Order?” I ask tentatively.

  “Have you an aversion to reading, ladies? If I wanted to learn more about any subject, I should find a good book or two,” she says, ushering us down the stairs, where Mrs. Porter is waiting for us.

  “Where are yer luv’ly drawings?” the landlady asks, inspecting us for paper or chalk. "Don’t be shy, now. Show old Por’er.”

  “We’ve nothing to show, I’m afraid,” Ann says.

  Mrs. Porter’s face darkens. “ ’Ere now, I run a respec’able establishment, Miss Moore. You said the admiral was payin’ fer lessons. Whatchoo been abou’ up there all this time, then?”

  Miss Moore leans toward Mrs. Porter till the old woman has to take a step back. “Witchcraft,” she whispers saucily. “
Come along, ladies. Button up. The wind is brisk and takes no prisoners.”

  Miss Moore ushers us out the door as Mrs. Porter shouts from the vestibule. “I don’t like tha’, Miss Moore. I don’t like tha’ a’ awl.”

  Miss Moore never looks back or loses her smile. “I shall see you Thursday,” she says, waving goodbye. And with that, we are dismissed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “THAT WAS AN AFTERNOON WASTED. MISS MOORE knows nothing more about the Order and the realms. We should have gone to the shops instead,” Felicity announces as we arrive at her mother’s women’s club.

  “I didn’t force you to go with me,” I say.

  “Perhaps Pippa has had luck in finding the Temple,” Ann says brightly.

  “It has been two days,” Felicity says, looking to me. “We promised to return as soon as we could.”

  “How can we come by any privacy together?” I ask.

  “Leave that to me,” Felicity answers.

  The doors are held open for us by a white-gloved attendant. Felicity offers her mother’s card, and the spindly man examines it.

  “We are guests of Lady Worthington, my mother,” Felicity says with disdain.

  “Begging your pardon, miss, it is not the custom of the Alexandra to admit more than one guest. I am sorry, but rules are rules.”The attendant does his best to look sympathetic, but in his smile, I see the slightest hint of satisfaction.

  Felicity gives the man in his crisp uniform a steely gaze. "Do you know who this is?” she says in a mock whisper that draws the attention of all standing near. I’m on my guard, for I know Felicity is hatching some plan. “This is Miss Ann Bradshaw, the recently discovered grand-niece of the Duke of Chesterfield.” She bats her eyelashes as if the servant is an idiot. "She is a descendant of the czarina herself. Surely you read about it.”

  “I’m afraid I have not, miss,” the attendant says, less sure now.

  Felicity sighs. “When I think of the hardships Miss Bradshaw has endured, living as an orphan, thought dead by those who loved her best, oh, it breaks my heart to know how she is being mistreated here at this very moment. Oh, dear, Miss Bradshaw. I am very sorry for this trouble. I’ve no doubt Mother will be quite put out when she hears of it.”

  One of the society matrons comes near. “Dear me, Miss Worthington, is this really the long-lost grand-niece of the czarina?”

  We’ve never said that, actually, but it serves us well.

  “Oh, yes,” Felicity says, wide-eyed. "As a matter of fact, Miss Bradshaw has come to sing for us today, so you see, she is not really a guest of Mother’s, but rather, she is a guest of the Alexandra.”

  “Felic—Miss Worthington!” Ann says, panicked.

  “She is exceedingly modest,” Felicity adds.

  There is whispering among the society matrons. We are on the verge of creating a scene. The attendant is ill at ease. If he admits us all, he is breaking the rules in view of everyone; if he turns one of us away, he risks angering a member and perhaps being dismissed for it. Felicity has played her hand masterfully.

  The matron steps forward. “As Miss Bradshaw is a guest of the Alexandra, I cannot see that it shall be any trouble at all.”

  “As you wish, madam,” the man says.

  “I look forward to hearing you sing this afternoon,” the woman calls after.

  “Felicity!” Ann whispers as the attendant escorts us into an oak-paneled dining room filled with lovely tables covered in white damask cloths.

  “What is it?”

  “You shouldn’t have said that, about my singing today.”

  “You can sing, can’t you?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Do you want to play this game or don’t you, Ann?”

  Ann says nothing more. The room is nearly filled with elegant women sipping tea and picking at watercress sandwiches. We are seated at a table in a far corner.

  Felicity’s face falls. "My mother has arrived.”

  Lady Worthington cuts a swath through the room. All eyes are upon her, for she is a handsome woman—fair as a china cup and seemingly as delicate. She exudes an air of fragility, like someone who has been cared for her entire life. Her smile is cordial without being too inviting. I could practice for a thousand years and not give such a smile. And her brown silk dress is sumptuous and cut in the latest fashion. Ropes of pearls hang round her slender neck. An enormous hat with peacock feathers on the band frames her face.

  “Bonjour, darling,” she says, kissing Felicity’s cheeks as I’ve heard the Parisians do.

  “Mother, must you make such a display?” Felicity chides.

  “Very well, darling. Hello, Miss Bradshaw,” Lady Worthington says. She looks at me, and her smile falters a bit. "I don’t believe we are acquainted.”

  “Mother, may I present Miss Gemma Doyle.”

  “How do you do, Lady Worthington?” I ask.

  Mrs. Worthington gives Felicity a tight smile. “Felicity, darling, I do wish you would let me know when you’ve invited a guest to tea. The Alexandra is quite strict about its guests.”

  I want to die. I want to sink through the floor and disappear. Why must Felicity do these things?

  A maid appears like a shadow at Mrs. Worthington’s side and pours tea for her.

  Mrs. Worthington places a napkin in her lap. "Well, no matter now. I am happy to meet Felicity’s friends. It’s so nice that Miss Bradshaw could spend Christmas with us as her dear great-uncle, the duke, is detained in Saint Petersburg.”

  “Yes,” I say, trying not to choke at this outrageous lie. “How fortunate we all are.”

  Lady Worthington asks a few polite questions and I give a dull but somewhat accurate autobiography; in return Lady Worthington seems to hang on every word. She makes me feel as if I’m the only person in the room. It’s easy to see why the admiral would fall in love with her. When she speaks, her stories are exceedingly entertaining. But Felicity sits sullenly, playing with her spoon, until her mother puts a hand on hers to stop her.

  “Darling,” she says. "Must you?”

  Felicity sighs and looks around the room as if hoping to see someone to rescue her.

  Lady Worthington gives one of her dazzling smiles. “Darling, I’ve some wonderful news. I had wanted to surprise you, but I don’t think I can wait a moment longer.”

  “What is it?” Felicity asks.

  “Papa has taken a ward. Little Polly was his cousin Bea’s daughter. Bea died of consumption, we are told, though I daresay she died of a broken heart. The father was always useless and signed her away without so much as a care. His own daughter.”

  Felicity has gone pale. "What do you mean? She’s to live with us? With you and Papa?”

  “Yes. And Mrs. Smalls, the governess, of course. Your father is so happy to have a little princess in the house again. Felicity, dear, not too much sugar in your tea. It isn’t good for the teeth,” Lady Worthington chides without losing her smile.

  As if she hasn’t heard, Felicity drops two more lumps of sugar into her tea and drinks it. Her mother pretends she hasn’t noticed.

  A woman as soft and overstuffed as a settee waddles to our table. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Worthington. Is it true that your distinguished guest is to sing for us today?”

  Lady Worthington looks startled. “Oh. Well, I can’t say . . . I . . .”

  The woman prattles on. “We were just discussing how extraordinary it is that you’ve taken Miss Bradshaw under your wing. If we might borrow you for a bit, please do come and tell Mrs. Threadgill and me how the czarina’s long-lost relation has come to be with us.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Lady Worthington says, gliding to the other table like a swan.

  “Are you all right, Fee?” I ask. "You look pale.”

  “I’m fine. I simply don’t like the idea of some little beast underfoot while I’m at home.”

  She’s jealous. Jealous of someone named little Polly. Felicity can be so incredibly petty at times.

 
; “She’s just a child,” I say.

  “I know that,” Felicity snaps. “It isn’t worth discussing. We have more important matters at hand. Follow me.”

  She leads us through tables of elegant ladies in grand hats sipping tea and gossiping. They glance up but we are unimportant, and they resume their discussions of who has done what to whom. We follow Felicity up wide, carpeted stairs, past ladies in stiff, fashionable dresses who seem to take a keen, if discreet, interest in these brash young ladies storming the barricades of their genteel club.

  “Where are you taking us?” I ask.

  “The club has private bedchambers for members. One of them will surely be empty. Oh, no.”

  “What is it?” Ann asks, panicked.

  Felicity’s peering over the banister to the foyer below. A solid-looking woman in a purple dress and a fur stole is holding court. She’s a commanding presence; the others hang on her every word. “One of my mother’s former friends, Lady Denby.”

  Lady Denby? Could this be Simon’s mother? A lump forms in my throat. I can only hope that I will be able to slip away undetected, so that Lady Denby will not form an unfavorable opinion of me.

  “Why do you say former friend?” Ann asks, looking worried.

  “She has never forgiven my mother for living in France. She doesn’t like the French, as the Middleton family can be traced to Lord Nelson himself,” she says, mentioning Britain’s great naval hero. "If Lady Denby likes you, you are set for life. If she finds you wanting in any way, you are shunned. Mind, she’s still cordial, but very cold. And my foolish mother is too blind to see it. She continues to try to win Lady Denby’s favor. I shall never be like that.”

  Felicity moves slowly, daringly, along the balcony, watching Lady Denby. I’m doing my best to keep my head down.

  “Is she Simon Middleton’s mother, then?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Felicity answers. "How do you know Simon Middleton?”

  “Who is Simon Middleton?” Ann asks.

  “I met him just yesterday at the train station. He and Tom are acquainted.”

  Felicity’s eyes widen. “When had you planned to tell us about it?”

  Ann tries again. "Who is Simon Middleton?”

  “Gemma, you’re keeping secrets again!”